


Wilde West

by vanderlindeapologist (redwinehouse)



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Drug Use, feel good fic, humorous drug use, wise man hosea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-15 19:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17534765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwinehouse/pseuds/vanderlindeapologist
Summary: Arthur Morgan is a swirling mess of contradictions. The mystery can only deepen when Micah comes stumbling into Dutch's tent, leather bound journal clutched in his hands and a vindictive sneer on his lips.





	1. Chapter 1

The flap of Dutch’s tent caught in the breeze, sending a swatch of billowing white canvas towards the summer sky. The rest of Dutch’s quarters remained partially closed, a tentative invitation to those of the Van der Linde Gang who really needed him. It was a beautiful day and spirits were unusually high. The sound of little Jack splashing in the lake wafted across the meadow. His people were enjoying themselves. They were living. He doubted he would get any visitors. Besides, they knew what it meant when his tent was closed.

Dutch was an exuberant man, but even he needed time alone — time to _think_. The Pinkertons were on their tail and with Colm O’Driscoll in his crosshairs, Dutch’s mind was a whirlwind of possibilities. They needed a way out. They needed a plan.

Usually a man of great poise, Dutch slouched in his chair with his chin buried in his chest. His dark eyes zipped across the page of the notebook that lay perched on his knee. It had become increasingly hard to find the time to sketch; ever since Blackwater they had been looking over their shoulder and sleeping with one eye open. Dutch did his best to keep up morale, but even he was wearing thin with every relocation, with every death. Then there were the whisperers, those who doubted him while he had his back turned.

For a man that could go an entire day with only a curt nod, Arthur Morgan had given Dutch more lip than the rest of the gang combined. God bless the boy for having the dignity to face him like a man, but Dutch damned him for his lack of trust. The young man and Hosea had been his only constants for decades. It wasn’t time for second-guessing.

The thought coaxed a chuckle from Dutch’s throat. A squirrelly old man and a sullen boy were the only things keeping him sane.

A smudge of his thumb blended the charcoal into a smokey shadow. Drawing was one of the few things he could do to quiet his thoughts. The juxtaposition of the sharp and soft lines was a soothing distraction from the turmoil that boiled outside.

Slipping a book of matches out of his pocket, Dutch reached for a cigar. He bit the cap off before placing it between his teeth. Sliding a match along the side of his boot, the tiny stick sputtered to life, alighting his face in the gloom. He leaned back and breathed in slightly, letting the smoke seep between his teeth. It was a good Cigar — Cuban, containing nothing but the finest tobacco. Arthur had stumbled upon a box during one of his “excursions.”

_Damn boy stole it for him._

It was a hard thing to be kindhearted in this line of work — freedom came at a cost. Of course, Dutch didn’t run a band of ruffians. He had been altruistic from the start, taking in the disenfranchised and offering them second chances. They lived in the wild but it was the civilized that were the true savages, raping and pillaging en masse. It was as perverse as it was shameful. This was the United States of America, the land of opportunity — _that’s_ what he was going to give to these people at _any_ cost.

But Arthur...Arthur had always been a soft soul. He held the cigar up to his nose.

“Dutch!”

Dutch blew out a puff of smoke. “What?” He didn’t bother to dull the edge to his voice.

The first thing one noticed about Micah Bell were the strands of greasy blond hair that hung from beneath his white hat. As the man burst into Dutch’s tent, strands of the affronted mop clung to his curled lips.

“Do you know what this is?” He shoved a leather notebook in front of him, nearly falling at the exertion.

Dutch lowered his chin but a fraction. “I do...and I don‘t think you should have it in your possession.”

The entire camp had seen Arthur huddled away with that book. For a man that didn’t speak, Arthur wrote prose like a poet, scribbling in his journal during the rare moments he had to himself. The outlaw would sequester himself to the edge of the water or under a tree, releasing his thoughts known only to the weather-worn pages and…

Micah’s mustache twitched and he took a step forward. “Do you know what’s in it?”

A knot formed in Dutch’s chest and he ground his teeth. “No, boy. And I don’t care to.” He pressed the cigar into the ashtray with more force than he intended before getting to his feet. He smoothed out his vest and held out a hand. “Why don’t you give that here?”

“He’s a dandy!”

That caught Dutch by surprise, but if the gang leader was anything, he was quick on his feet.

“Micah, I don’t care if he’s a horse in a skirt so long as he has my back. Now give me the book.” The pluck of Javier’s guitar drifted into the tent as neither man moved. “I ain’t asking.”

“Fine.” Micah presented the journal to his boss and held his hands up, backing away. “I’d take a good gander if I were you, though. Don’t want a guy like that near my tent. I think you might find some of it...most interesting to you.”

The voice that usually did wonders for Dutch’s ego had become grating. Part of Dutch, the sensible side, knew that Micah was a yes man, but he needed a lifeline while he was wading through a den of snakes. However, some behavior was inexcusable.

Dutch reached for the stack of books piled on the bookshelf next to his cot. With the delicacy of a noblewoman, he slid one from the stack and began flipping through its pages.

“You hear about the court case back in 1895, Mr. Bell?”

“I sure didn’t.”

Dutch nodded, unsurprised. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and forget about whatever you read between these pages? I heard Mrs. Grimshaw needed help with the laundry.”

The bristles of Micah’s mustache twitched as he retreated out of the tent, either muttering or cursing under his breath.

Dutch looked down at the journal, curiosity gnawing at him as he stepped out into the afternoon. He held a hand over his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend.”

Hosea sat in a chair just outside of Dutch’s tent, whittling a block of wood. Thin shavings curled from his blade, fluttering into piles next to his shoes.

“How long have you been there?”

Hosea’s lips curled upward around his pipe. “An hour, maybe more. Your tent, as ostentatious as it is, gives the best shade this time of day.” He gestured to the patch of grass next to him. “Come, sit.”

Grabbing the chair from inside, Dutch sat next to his oldest friend. They sat in a comfortable silence, watching the comings and goings of the camp’s inhabitants.

“You know, he’s right,” Hosea said, not taking his eyes off his work. “That journal would prove mighty interesting to you.”

This surprised Dutch. Had they really so readily thrown out common decency? “You went through a man’s private thoughts? And _what_ are you talking about?” He was growing weary of riddles and half answers.

Hosea’s eyebrows pulled together and he shook his head. “No...no. Nothing like that. Call it intuition, or the fact that I’m not blind as a bat and know Arthur like he’s my own son.” He sat the block of wood on his knee and turned to Dutch. “You’re one of the smartest men I know Dutch, but you are a fool. That boy’s been sweet on you since his early twenties.”

Heads turned as Dutch’s laughter reached across the lake. He put a hand to his chest, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hosea, my friend, you are truly senile. Maybe it’s about time we put you out to pasture.” He rapped his knuckles against Hosea’s head. “That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard you say.”

“Why did the coffee file a police report?”

Dutch’s nose wrinkled as he glared at his longtime companion. “What?”

Hosea’s face remained impassive. “Because it got mugged. _That_ is the dumbest thing you will ever hear me say.”

Mrs. Grimshaw rolled her eyes as Dutch stumbled off, holding his stomach.

“Idiot,” Hosea murmured, returning to his whitling.

Arthur always set up camp next to Dutch, something he attributed to familiarity. It was beautiful, really, and the sense of family Dutch looked for in the rest of his gang. It only took a few footsteps to find what he was looking for.

The man was sitting on the edge of his cot, cleaning his cattleman revolver. At the sound of Dutch’s approach, Arthur looked up from beneath the brim of his hat.

“S’bout to go see if I can find us any food. Pearson’s been givin’ me that look again.” He jutted his chin towards the portly cook who quickly turned his back at the men’s gaze, his belly jiggling.

Dutch lay a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I know that not everyone is pulling their weight here, Arthur. I see the burden you’ve taken and know that this won’t be forever.” When he only earned a non-committal grunt, Dutch held out the journal. “I took this from Micah.”

The momentary flash of panic in Arthur’s otherwise stoic face was enough to still Dutch’s hand.

“D’ya read it?” Arthur’s voice was flat as he took the book from Dutch’s limp grasp.

“No, but Micah said enough and Hosea had some...” — his face contorted — “theory.” The camp seemed smaller as Dutch looked over his shoulder. Adam’s apple bobbing, he made a decision. “Ride with me, Arthur.”

It seemed like the boy was going to brush Dutch aside, but placing his hands on his knees, Arthur stood. “What is this, Dutch?”

“We’re not doing this here,” Dutch explained as he led Arthur towards the hitching posts. He put his book in his saddlebag. “Just follow me.” Dutch swung his leg over The Count’s back and took up the reins. “Well, are you coming?”

Arthur shook his head, sighing before he heaved himself onto his mount. “This ain’t a good idea.”

There was a sizable possibility that Arthur was right. Lawless life was unpredictable and wild, making one more beast than man. Dutch had accepted each day as his last years ago and it made him a fearless leader. Yet as he readied for their departure, he had never found himself more anxious. Neither bullets nor charm could help him out of this scheme.

With a snap of the reins, The Count took off. The forest was a blur of leaves and dappled sunlight as the horses shot between the trees.

“When will you learn,” Dutch called over the pounding of hooves, “that all of my ideas are good ideas, Arthur?”

They pushed hard over the rolling hills of the northwestern side of Rhodes. The Count’s sides heaved underneath Dutch’s heels and a fine sheen of sweat covered his coat as they crested the final slope. Gritting his teeth, Dutch reined the horse in, bringing him to a stop on the muddy banks of Mattock Pond.

“Stop here.” Dutch clamored off The Count. His boots sunk into the mud half an inch, but it was the least of his worries as Arthur slid off his horse. He refused to meet Dutch’s eye as he murmured praises to the animal.

It was a rare thing for Dutch Van der Linde to be speechless. “Arthur -”

But Arthur was too quick for him. “I don’t wanna hear it, Dutch.” Arthur swatted him away like a fly. “Jus' leave us the way we was.”

“No, Arthur,” Dutch replied with a shake of the head. “You don’t leave that aside, son.” He smiled, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender. His gold rings caught in the sunlight. “I am completely defenseless. Say your piece.”

Maybe he could charm a little.

Arthur raised a hand to his stubble before he scoffed. “Damn it,” he swore. “I wouldn’t’a made it to my eighteenth birthday if it wasn’t for you.”

Dutch’s lips were a thin line as he took a step forward, hands still above his head. He wondered if this was what it was like to be on the other side of the gun.

“I raised you, Arthur. I love you like you’re my son.” He stopped when Arthur held up a hand.

“Don’t do that.”

Dutch curled his fingers before he lowered his hands. “All right.” Arthur had turned back to his horse, fiddling with a stirrup that didn’t need tending to. “If I may be so bold, may I ask when? Hosea seems to know, but how can you trust a man who still thinks Chester Arthur is president?”

A swish of the horse’s tail caught Arthur’s arm. “I don’t know. Old enough to know it ain’t right.” The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to work something out in his head. “I don’t know what this is, Dutch. Been feelin’ as out of place as those Chelonian bastards.”

Shaking his head, Dutch pulled the book from his saddlebag. “Far from it, Arthur Morgan. Four years ago, a man just as yourself stood trial because _civilized_ people could not deal with who he was. He’s a writer, a man of talent and intellect.” He placed the book in Arthur’s hands. “The world finds these people dangerous, Arthur, but there _are_ people like you. When we go west, things will get better, when we’re away from the noise.”

That was all he had. Dutch gave a lot of speeches, but this had him scrambling for more than just the sound of his own voice.  

Arthur ran his thumb across the cover, spreading a swatch of dirt over the title. “That feller wrote this?” At Dutch’s nod Arthur dropped it into his satchel. “Thank you.”

Words failed Dutch as he pulled Arthur into an embrace. The boy was as stiff as a board before he  finally sunk into him.

“Let’s go home.”

 

~*~

“Did ya hear about Morgan?”

Hosea looked up from the small wooden rabbit in his hand, knife midway down its back. “Pardon me?”

Micah lobbed a wad of phlegm before he tried again. “I said, did you hear about Morgan?”

“What goes on amongst ourselves deserves to stay that way. Now run along now before Arthur finds out you’ve been running around here while his back’s been turned.” Hosea waved his knife.

The words seemed to have an immediate effect because Micah paled. “Whatever, old man.”

“Impudence.” Hosea watched as Micah stalked off to haunt some other poor unfortunate soul. What Dutch saw in the foul creature escaped Hosea. He just hoped he could talk some sense into him before things turned sour. The man made him uneasy.

A soft ‘thump’ made the old man start. Dutch’s sketchbook had fallen from its spot on his chair as if an invisible hand had nudged it onto the ground. Being a man well past caring, Hosea allowed curiosity to kill him and peaked inside.

Pictures of delicate women slowly morphed into rugged sketches of the one and only Arthur Morgan: silhouettes of the outlaw writing under a tree, brooding sketches of his face, and entire pages of only the man’s hands passed underneath his fingers. A flush of shame crept up Hosea’s neck and he snapped the book shut, aware of his intrusion.

He didn’t know nearly as much as he thought he did.


	2. Chapter 2

Dutch always woke with the birds. There was a certain tranquility to dawn that could not be reconstructed, an artistry that slowed his heartbeat and gave him a clear head. Since the sapling days of the Van der Linde Gang, he used his time in the morning to observe. His family of twenty would be asleep at this hour, but the enemy never slept and it eased his mind to check the status quo.

Releasing the crick in his neck, Dutch stood tall at the mouth of his tent. Mist swirled around his ankles as he scanned Clemens Point. The tops of the wagons rose out of the fog like mountain peaks, sending a curl to his lip. He needn’t be reminded of their time in the Grizzlies.

A grunt pulled him from his thoughts. 

“Mornin’, Dutch,” Arthur greeted, a sack of grain hiked on his shoulder as he strode past the tent. He brushed his fingertips against the brim of his hat before crossing towards Mr. Pearson’s wagon. 

“Now that’s the type of work ethic I like to see,” Dutch praised. It wasn’t unlike the boy to be up at this hour, running through the list of camp chores before he set out on gang business. Somehow Arthur managed to balance the life of an outlaw and domestic responsibility with ease, a task seemingly impossible for others. 

Dutch watched as Arthur tossed the sack onto the ground, the muscles of the man’s back twisting underneath his shirt. Dutch rubbed his hand across his lower lip and swallowed.

“I see the way you look at him.”

Dutch turned. Molly was sitting on the edge of his cot, eyes half-lidded and red hair wild.

“What are you talking about?”

The Irish beauty pulled out a compact mirror and began to tame her curls, not bothering to give Dutch a glance. “Don’t play dumb with me, Dutch van der Linde. You haven’t spared me a glance in weeks because you’re all eyes for Arthur Morgan.” The mirror snapped shut. “I always thought there’d be a possibility I’d see you behind bars, but never for  _ that _ .” 

Dutch’s tall frame grew larger as he retreated into the shadow of the tent. “You sound like a damn fool.”

The life of an outlaw was not kind to Molly. She was a woman with soft hands, something Dutch should have taken as a warning sign. However, he had craved a warm body since Anabelle and accepted her advances. The last few weeks had brought them strain and he couldn’t be bothered with the women he was supposed to be bothered with. 

With a little ‘hmph!’ Molly stuck her nose in the air, gathered her skirts, and sauntered out into the morning.

Muted conversation had slowly but surely begun to hang in the air as people started to stir. The sizzle of bacon fat snapped and popped, its salty brine tickling Dutch’s nose. Flattening his hair, he emerged with a scowl.

Hosea sat at one of the tables, nursing a bowl of oatmeal. “You look like you could scare a buzzard off a gut pile.”

“And what does that mean?” Dutch took the seat next to him.

“It means you look ugly.”

“That would be the doing of a Miss Molly O’Shea.” Dutch accepted the coffee mug Hosea offered with a nod. There was a poignant pause between the two men and when Hosea refused to meet Dutch’s eye, his suspicions flared. “Do you have something to say?”

Hosea stared into his bowl, stirring the colorless glob. “Have you ever wondered as to why your relationship is failing so miserably?” 

“It seems you have.”

It was unlike Hosea to be hesitant. With every tap of his finger, Dutch grew more apprehensive.

“I assume your brain hasn’t aged to the point you’ve forgotten the incident several weeks ago with Arthur.” When Dutch shook his head, Hosea continued. “Well, I was sitting outside your tent long after you left and call it an accident, but your sketchbook fell to the ground. Me being a man well beyond manners I looked inside and saw...what I saw.”

Dutch’s fingers curled as he leaned forward. “What are you saying to me, Hosea?”

The decades between them did not let the threat stick and Hosea looked at his friend, unimpressed. “You know what I’m talking about, Dutch.”

Dutch gazed over Hosea’s shoulder. Arthur sat alone at his tent, nursing a cup of coffee, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ sitting on the crate next to his cot. He had never been much of a reader, always a man of action, wanting to get up and _go_ since he was an angry young man. 

It made Dutch’s heart clench.

“I -” 

“I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but I’ve had several weeks to think it over.” Hosea rubbed at his chin. “We raised him like he was one of our own but he isn’t  _ technically  _ one of our own. You’re only eight years older than him, certainly far from a fatherly age gap.” Finally giving up on his oatmeal, Hosea pushed the bowl away and the two locked eyes. “All I’m saying is that if you are ever locked away, it should be for something that brings you joy.”

Damp soil flew as Dutch shoved his chair back. “You’re out of your mind.” 

“Far be it from me to suggest otherwise.” 

~*~

Josiah Trewlany rode into camp at dusk. He descended upon them in pomp and frill, greeting Dutch with a deep bow.

“And good evening to you!”

Dutch folded his arms across his chest. “And to what do we owe the pleasure, my fairweather friend?”

“Oh, don’t act so misanthropic! I have something for you.” Trewlany grabbed Dutch by the shoulder and ushered him inside the tent. “I was in Saint Denis when I found the finest dame. Naturally, I tried wooing her. When I pulled a rose from her bustier, her husband appeared. I was just able to escape with my life and this.” Trewlawny reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a small rucksack with a snap of his wrist. “It’s half a pound of pearl dust.”

“You’re speaking in tongues.”

“Cocaine, my good man!”

The late afternoon sun was snuffed out as Dutch pulled the tent folds closed. “You come to me, pedaling the stuff of alleyway beatniks?” His voice was a low growl as he loomed over the other man.

“This is not your basement brew! These people will be so high that their heads will be tickling the feet of angels with  _ no _ ill effects!”

Dutch took a seat, a fist held thoughtfully beneath his nose. “I suppose. Keep it away from the women and Jack.”

“With pleasure!”

The trickster worked his magic and the bag of debauchery found itself across camp by the time the sun had set. The campfire roared as Sean and Uncle - for the first time on his feet - hurtled across the clearing with Karen and Tilly on their backs. At the table, Lenny and Javier played five finger filet, their pupils pinpricks as the knife danced between their splayed fingers. Neither flinched when the blade pierced their skin.

“They’re going to feel this tomorrow,” Charles said, watching as Uncle’s foot caught on a fallen log.

Arthur shifted on his cot, glancing up from the book he was trying to read. “I’m sure.”

“I’m happy that John turned Trelwany down. I really think he’s trying to be a better man for Jack.”

“We’ll see.”

Charles shook his head, giving Arthur a wave before retreating into the night. 

Arthur reached into his satchel and pulled out his journal. It had taken a while for the book to feel at home in his hands since Micah had stolen it from him. He had been a fool to write such things on paper. A damned fool.

_ Trewlany brought the camp a bunch of “magic tricks.” Dutch seemed angry at first, but he was somehow able to convince him. Now everybody’s acting like that drunken whore in Saint Denis. Never knew what happened to that lady.  _

_ Uncle ran for the first time today. Didn’t know he could do that. Guess that’s good, at least. _

Arthur remembered the woman, stretched out on the chaise lounge in the bar, spewing obscenities that didn’t match how pretty she was. He assumed the lady was the type of woman men wanted. As much as he tried to fool himself with Mary, he didn’t understand it.

He took out a cigarette and lit it. Dutch stood outside of his tent, watching the chaos with bemusement. He looked relaxed for the first time since Blackwater. He looked much better than the lady in the lounge.

“Evening, cowpoke.” 

Micah hung over him, leaning against his tent. His shirt was damp from spilled beer and he stank of booze. There was sweat on his brow from the campfire. Arthur watched as his fingers twitched at his sides.

He smiled. “Why aren’t you joining the party? Or is Arthur Morgan too good for a good time?”

“You know me, Micah. I ain’t no fun.”

“Oh, I know Morgan. You are a  _ real  _ stick in the mud, but I can help you with that.” 

Flicking the cigarette aside, Arthur got to his feet. He towered over Micah as he hooked a thumb in his belt. “How’s about you and me go our separate ways before I snap one of them fingers off?” 

The threat might have worked if Micah’s body wasn’t humming with hard drugs. Instead, the man just wagged a finger.

“I have a much better idea.”

Steal bit the underside of Arthur’s nose as Micah pressed the broadside of a blade against his nostrils. He gasped, inhaling a line of white powder.

“Have a nice evening, cowpoke.”

~*~

“You can’t keep treating me like this!”

When Molly screamed her face got nearly as red as her hair, hiding the smattering of freckles that dusted her cheeks.

“Will you keep your voice down, woman?” Dutch sat on the crate at the edge of his bed. He dropped his head into his hands and began to push against his eyes with his palms. It was the only thing that could block out the trill of a Miss Molly O’Shea. 

His mind whirled as he watched the undulations and oscillations of light as they burst across the expanse of his eyelids. 

“You’re a disgrace, is what you are. Had me ma known that I’d taken with a man with your kind of wiles, she’d be rolling in her grave!”

He needed to get out. A thousand drugged vagabonds were preferable to the harpy that was clawing at his throat. Dutch burst out of the tent, hands shaking. He lit a cigar just so he had something to do.

“Arthur.” His protege stood before him, eyes darting across Dutch’s face. At his name, Arthur took off his hat.

Dutch raised an eyebrow, watching as Arthur drummed his nails against the brim, foot bouncing. 

“Spit it out, son.”

“I love you.” 

Dutch brought the cigar to his lips. “Of course you do. I didn’t raise a heartless buffoon.”

“No, no, no. That ain’t it.” 

Dutch opened his mouth to demand that Arthur explain himself, but a hand slid into his hair and Arthur’s lips descended on his own. 

The cigar was still in Dutch ’s hand as he inhaled sharply through his nose, unsure of what to do. Where a woman’s cheek was soft and supple, there was a scratch of stubble on Arthur’s face. Nothing about him was familiar or safe. The act was wild and foreign, something to be chased. 

Dutch had been thinking about this for some time. Hosea had been right and he damned him for being so, the old man. His hand cupped the back of Arthur’s neck, thumb resting on his jawline. 

Dutch swallowed as Arthur pulled back, both men hovering in an unasked question.

“See me when your mind’s clear.” 

Arthur slid his hat back on, biting back a cough and a hint of a smile. “Sure.”  

Dutch crushed the rest of his cigar underneath his boot, grateful that the dark shielded the red tinge to his neck. The last thing he needed was for the camp to know about the homosexual rendezvous he had with his lieutenant. 

It would stay between them and the pages for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't get it right but I am so damn sick of it that I'm posting it. T^T I liked the beginning
> 
> Come scream at [@vanderlindeapologists](https://vanderlindeapologists.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by all the pretty ladies I always saw Dutch drawing. 
> 
> I'm also on [this medium](https://vanderlindeapologists.tumblr.com/)


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